


Perfect for Now

by writerindisguise



Series: Flip the Script [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Coda, Dean as a father, Depression, Episode: s15e20 Carry On, F/F, F/M, First Kiss, Fix-It of Sorts, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Lots of Angst, M/M, Pregnancy, Queer Families, Seriously this is dark but it does get happy, Stevie is also a good friend, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Surrogacy, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, briefly, charlie is a good friend, eventual destiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:28:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27925285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writerindisguise/pseuds/writerindisguise
Summary: “It’s okay. I’ll be okay,” Dean had promised.Correction: Dean had lied.He wasn’t okay. Nothing was okay. His body was numb, legs moving, hands working, wrapping his brother’s body. Arranging the pyre. Pouring salt.Lighting the match.-----What if Sam had been the one to die in the finale instead of Dean? Dean is alone, fully and completely, after Cas, Jack and Sam are all gone. He's supposed to keep going, supposed to keep living, but he's not sure how, and not entire sure he wants to figure it out. At least, until Charlie shows up and doesn't give him a choice.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Charlie Bradbury/Stevie, Claire Novak/Kaia Nieves (Implied), Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Series: Flip the Script [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2044777
Comments: 3
Kudos: 75





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is part 2 of a new series I'm writing on how the end of Supernatural would've been different if Sam had died instead of Dean. This part is not nearly as happy and uplifting as part 1 (seriously, please heed the warnings in the tags) but it does get better, I promise. There will be 3 chapters in this part. All of it has been written. I'll probably post a part every couple days, or maybe a part every day if I have less self control.

“It’s okay. I’ll be okay,” Dean had promised.

Correction: Dean had lied.

He wasn’t okay. Nothing was okay. His body was numb, legs moving, hands working, wrapping his brother’s body. Arranging the pyre. Pouring salt. 

Lighting the match.

He felt like he was watching from far away, not through his own eyes. Like he was watching someone else watch his brother’s body burn. 

He drove through a fog, though the streets were clear. But his mind wasn’t. Nothing was clear. Everything felt heavy, like he was moving through molasses. It was a struggle to put the key in the ignition, it felt like it took every ounce of strength he had to turn the wheels, to pull the car back onto the road. It feels like he was physically dragging all 3500 pounds of metal, glass and rubber down the highway. 

Stepping into the bunker was when he lost it. His footsteps echoed. No voices greeted him. There was no one left. First Cas, then Jack, now Sam. Everyone was gone. Everyone had left him. He’d always known they would. 

His knuckles showed the wear of the losing fights he’d gotten into more than the brick walls he’d fought against. All those showed were dried smears of blood that he didn’t care enough to clean off. Beer bottles littered the table, until he ran out. Then a couple whiskey bottles joined them. 

Numb. He just needed to feel numb. He needed to feel nothing. 

Except that when Dean felt numb, that was when he felt the most. He felt anger, he felt betrayal. He felt tears burning his eyes and took another swig of whiskey until his throat burned more. He felt a tugging pain in his chest. He felt the strange mixture of trust and abandonment when he’d watched Jack walk away. He felt the pain of failure that had gripped him when he watched the light leave his brother’s eyes, felt his body go limp. He felt…whatever he’d seen in Cas’s eyes when he’d told Dean—He took a longer pull from the bottle and laid on the unforgiving concrete floor. 

If he said a silent prayer to Jack, asking to not wake up, that was between him and his pseudo-son-turned-God. 

—————

Pounding in his head woke Dean. It was usually what woke him up the last few days, or week, however long it had been. It was always the hangover that woke him. Reminding him that the alcohol level in his body was getting dangerously low, and he needed to wake up and rectify the problem immediately. Lest he start to think—And thinking was strictly forbidden.

When he pried his eyes open though, the pounding wasn’t just inside his head. And it was accompanied by a voice. Dean sat up, shoving an empty whiskey bottle that he’d somehow ended up using for a pillow, out of the way and clambered to his feet. It took him a few minutes to separate the voice from the pounding in his head and the pounding on the door, but he recognized the voice as soon as he could distinguish it.

“Dean! Open the door! I know you’re in there. I’m tracking your phone,” Charlie yelled from the other side of the door. 

“Hang—fuck,” Dean tried to call out to her, but his throat felt like sandpaper, and his own voice sounded like a sledgehammer inside his head. He stumbled a little, trying to get to the stairs, but the pounding on the door, the pounding in his head, her yelling—it was too goddamn much. He picked up an empty bottle and threw it at the door. Even hungover, his aim was dead on. 

It belatedly occurred to him as he watched the spray of shattered glass explode against the door that that probably hadn’t been the best idea. But the pounding on the door and the yelling stopped, so it was worth the pain of having to clean up broken glass later. 

With only the pounding in his head, it was easier to make his way to the stairs, grabbing onto the banister and using it to pull himself up the stairs, one by one. It took him the amount of time necessary to climb the stairs to forget about the broken glass.

“Son of a bitch,” he swore when a sharp pain pierced his foot through his socks. “The hell do you want?” He snapped as he swung the door open. 

“Good to see you too, Winchester,” Charlie said. There was no warmth in her voice or truth audible in her words. Dean didn’t particularly care. He turned and started to try and storm downstairs, only to stumble and catch himself on the banister, hissing in pain as the glass twisted in his foot. “What the hell?” Charlie’s voice held more concern this time, and Dean was even more annoyed at that. 

An arm wrapped around his back, around his ribs, and a hand tugged one of his arms around her shoulders. He let her guide him down the stairs, stumbling and cursing at everything. At the stairs, at the glass, at the blood making the stairs slick, at Charlie, at himself. Mostly at himself. 

It took about thirty minutes, a pair of tweezers, a fair number of stitches, a lot of bandages, a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a bottle of whiskey, before Charlie glared at him again. She’d propped his foot up on a chair with the order not to move, before snatching away the whiskey bottle.

“The fuck? Give that back,” Dean growled at her. 

“No way,” Charlie said, stalking away. Dean tried to move, but a sharp pain emanated from his foot before he could even set it on the floor. He had to use both hands to gingerly lift his leg back up to the chair again. Tears pricked at the back of his eyes, and he took a few shaky breaths through the pain. The glass had gone deeper than he’d originally thought. 

Charlie returned a minute later, the whiskey bottle having been replaced by a glass of water, a bottle of gatorade held between her arm and her chest, and what looked like a plate of toast in her other hand. She set the items on the table beside him wordlessly. He glared from the toast up to Charlie again.

“You want to tell me why you’re ignoring everyone’s calls? You’ve got everyone worried sick. And where’s Sam?” Something must’ve shown on his face because her expression softened for the first time since Dean had opened the door. “No,” she whispered.

Dean nodded, eyes dropping back to the toast. His stomach turned just looking at it, so he grabbed the glass of water instead, taking a few small sips. As soon as the water hit his tongue, he wanted to chug the entire glass, but he knew from experience that wouldn’t end well. He forced himself to set the glass down on the table, still mostly full. “He’s gone,” Dean said, his voice rough and pained. “Cas and Jack too. I mean, Jack is—God, or something. But Cas and Sam. They’re—gone gone.” 

He heard soft footsteps, then the scrape of the chair behind him. Charlie’s arms wrapped around his shoulders from behind, and he put a hand over hers. As soon as she adjusted her grip so that her fingers wrapped around his, the tears he’d been forcing back poured from his eyes. His chest racked with sobs he’d spent too long forcing down with stubbornness and alcohol. He tightened his grip on her hand, tugging wordlessly at it until she got the hint and moved around in front of him so he could hug her properly.

Dean wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, Charlie bent down with her arms wrapped around him, his face buried against her shoulder. It was long enough that Charlie winced when she straightened up and her back popped loudly, and there was a sizable wet patch on the shoulder of her shirt. “Sorry,” Dean muttered. 

“You should be,” Charlie replied, though there was no venom in her tone. She pulled her chair around so she could sit facing Dean, the chair where his leg was still propped up on the chair beside her. “But not for this,” she added, gesturing to the wet patch on her shirt. “You should be sorry for scaring the hell out of us. Jody called, thinking I might’ve heard from you. Her and Donna are pulling their hair out.”

“It’s only been a few days. A week tops,” Dean groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. When he looked back at Charlie, she was staring at him, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. “What?”

“Dean, it’s been almost a month,” Charlie whispered. He stared at her, and slowly shook his head.

“No, no it—no.” He tore his eyes away from her, looking around at the bunker. At the beer bottles, whiskey bottles scattered across the table, across the floor. At the stack of empty frozen pizza boxes leaning precariously against the trashcan. Various empty potato chip bags thrown vaguely in that direction. It smelled like alcohol and death. He smelled like alcohol and death. 

“Dean?” Charlie’s gentle voice pulled him back, and his eyes found hers again.

“I’m not okay,” he muttered.

“You will be,” Charlie assured him. He didn’t share her confidence. 

“Where’d you put the whiskey?” He ground out, earning another glare from the girl.

“No,” she said firmly, before standing up. She pushed the plate of toast towards him before leaving the room again. He made a disgusted face at it, but picked up a piece and tore a corner off with his teeth. It felt like chewing on styrofoam, and he expected it tasted about the same. But he managed to choke down half a slice, the rest of the water, and a few sips of gatorade by the time Charlie returned.

“Hell no,” he said immediately, eyes dropping to the crutches in her hands.

“That glass went pretty deep into your foot,” Charlie said. “It’s not going to heal properly if you keep walking on it. Just for a few days, a week tops. Trust me, you won’t even notice the time go by,” she added sharply.

“Funny,” Dean scowled at her. He didn’t reach out to take the crutches, earning an exhausted sigh from her as she leaned them against the table beside him. 

“Come on, up,” Charlie instructed.

“Thought you said I’m not supposed to be walking around,” Dean said, a sarcastic smile on his lips. He got a petty kind of satisfaction out of watching her cross her arms over her chest. 

“You can on the crutches. Besides, you need a bath. You smell like a frat house. One of the shitty frats houses full of misogynistic assholes that haze freshman by getting them blackout drunk and punching them til they puke their guts out.”

“That’s…specific,” Dean said. “Fine, I’ll go take a shower and—“

“I said bath,” Charlie pointed out.

“Yeah, no. Fuck that,” Dean muttered. Not that he really had anything against baths, but he was losing every battle so far with Charlie. He at least wanted this one, stupid as it may be. 

“Alright, but don’t yell for me when you fall on that foot and bust your stitches open,” Charlie said in far too cheery of a voice. “I’m not picking your bleeding, naked body up off the floor, so good luck.” 

She won that one too. 

At her instruction, he kept his injured foot propped up on the side of the tub, only gently cleaning around the stitches to avoid submerging it in water. Even he had to begrudgingly admit that he felt better when he emerged from the bathroom. 

If she heard him puking up the toast and the last week’s worth of alcohol in his system, she had the grace not to say anything when he emerged.

Everything still hurt, but nothing was numb. The pain was worse, but the emptiness wasn’t. It was the worst of being drunk and the worst of being hungover combined. Charlie was there, and that helped, even if he didn’t want to admit it. He knew she would leave too, soon. That made it worse, but it was also almost a comfort, in a way. There was comfort in familiar pain. It wasn’t a surprise. It would never be a surprise anymore. People left him, they always did. So he didn’t get attached. He didn’t speak more than was necessary, and stayed in his room mostly. 

Charlie had searched the bunker top to bottom, finding and confiscating every bottle of alcohol she could find. She didn’t find the one tucked between Dean’s mattress and box springs, until she found him drunk the night after she arrived. Then she confiscated that bottle too. 

“Just leave already!” Dean had yelled at her one morning about a week after she’d arrived.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Charlie had snapped at him.

“Yes you are. Everyone does. Everyone leaves, so just go now.”

Charlie’s expression turned sad for barely a split second, then it was determined. “Fine, I’ll leave,” she said.

“Good,” Dean replied. He hoped she didn’t hear his heart breaking. 

“And you’re coming with me,” Charlie added. 

“Wait, what?”

That was how Dean ended up in baby for the first time in over a month, Charlie riding shotgun and messing with the radio dials. 

“Damn, you really are out of it,” she commented. He only just then tuned in to hear that she’d turned the radio to show tunes.

“Turn that shit off,” he grumbled. “Where the hell am I going anyway?”

“Interstate entrance is just up there.” She fell silent, and he did as well. For at least an hour until Charlie said she was hungry and they pulled off to find somewhere to get lunch. 

“Why’re you so damned determined to help me?” Dean asked. The server had just left after taking their orders, and Dean was twisting a straw wrapped between his fingers, not looking at Charlie as he spoke.

“Why’re you so damned determined not to let me?” Charlie asked.

“I asked first.” She glared at him, and he just stretched his lips into a feigned smile. 

“Dean, people care about you. I care about you,” Charlie said.

“Yeah well. Everyone I cared about is gone,” Dean muttered. He jerked back when a hand landed hard on his shoulder, eyes shooting up to hers in indignation. “What the hell?”

“What do you mean what the hell?” Charlie hissed at him. He could see now that tears glazed over her eyes, even as she glared daggers at him. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean—“

“Yeah, you did,” Charlie said. “What about all that stuff you told me about family not ending in blood? What about me? What about Jody and Garth? What about Claire? We’re your family too, and we’re worried about you. Sam and Cas wouldn’t want—“

“You don’t know a damn thing about what they would’ve wanted,” Dean snapped. He should feel bad, he knew that. And some part of him did. But the large part was just angry, and wanted to stay angry. Anger he could deal with. Anger was familiar.

Charlie looked away, offering a polite smile to the server as he brought their food. “Thanks,” she said quietly. Dean just looked up and forced a smile that the server barely returned before leaving them again. 

“They loved you,” Charlie said, and that felt like the worst thing she could’ve said. They did. And it was what got Cas killed. And Sam—hell, Sam wouldn’t even be hunting at all if it wasn’t for Dean. He should have a win and kids and a white picket fence. A real apple pie life. So yeah, his brother loving him had gotten that dork killed too. 

Instead of saying that though, he just shoved a few fries into his mouth and continued to avoid eye contact. He heard Charlie sigh after a minute, and she started picking at the chicken tenders on her plate. 

“They would want you to be happy, you know,” Charlie broke the silence when Dean was about halfway through his burger. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Dean said, finally looking up at her. “Dead people don’t want anything.” 

A sad kind of smile tugged at her lips. “Ok, then what about people in Heaven? They want things, right? For the people they left behind?”

Dean shrugged. He would probably never get used to it. An afterlife. The concept of it sounded too Sunday school to consider. Heaven was for angels and Hell was for demons. The thought of humans going to either after they died—it made him want to punch a preacher yelling about sinners going to hell. About gay people going to hell. About Cas—

“They got eternity to get over it,” Dean said. 

“Okay, but why not enjoy life for a while? It can be beautiful. And we’ll see them again eventually.”

“I don’t like the sound of eventually,” Dean said, picking at the last few fries on his plate. And he wouldn’t see them again. Cas wouldn’t be there. But he didn’t say that. “Feels like wasting time down here, when I could be there with Sam.”

“You’ll have eternity to get over it,” Charlie said. And that was not the response he expected. He couldn’t help it. He laughed. The kind of surprised laughter that started quietly, but he couldn’t stop. The kind of laughter that hurt his chest, and burned his eyes until he was gasping for a few breaths between punches of now painful laughter. The kind of laughter that could’ve turned into sobs if he didn’t manage to catch his breath in time to stop it. 

“I hate you,” he choked out, grin still on his face, hand wiping away tears.

“Love you too, bitch. Now come on. We’ve got a lot more driving to do if we wanna get home before tomorrow.” 

He didn’t feel normal. He didn’t feel good. Not by any definition. But he felt…Okay. As okay as he could, anyway. He felt like he wasn’t alone, and that was a dangerous feeling, but he let himself indulge in it, just for a little while. 

It felt good to drive again, to be out of the bunker. It made everything feel less real. Less permanent. If he wasn’t at the bunker, then Cas and Sam could be there. Just waiting for him. If he wasn’t there, then they weren’t gone. 

Except that they were, and it didn’t matter if or when he ever went back to the bunker. They wouldn’t be there. So Dean just kept driving, following Charlie’s instructions, for several hours until they pulled into a driveway sometime just before midnight.

Meeting Stevie didn’t feel like the kind of joyous occasion it should’ve been. Dean was mostly just tired, Stevie was kind and understanding, but in a different way than Charlie. Charlie was kind and understanding in a tough love kind of way. Stevie was just kind. She offered Dean water, asked if he wanted to eat, instead of Charlie’s habit of taking the decision away from him and just shoving food in his face. He liked Stevie’s version of helping, but he knew how to respond better to Charlie’s. It was a weird kind of limbo. 

He ended up just going to sleep in the guest room across the hall from their bedroom. 

The weeks that followed saw too many people coming by to visit. Every new face that came through the door, that gave him that relieved sort of smile, or familiar punch on the arm, felt at the same time surprising and expected. Some part of him knew that he had people. That there were other hunters, other people that worried about him. Another part of him was angry at them for not being there on that hunt, for not being there to help him save Sam. Not that Dean had been or ever would’ve asked them for help with a damn vamp nest. 

He resented their absence all the same. 

Day thirty sober wasn’t much easier than day one. It was harder, in some ways. He knew what a month numb had felt like. He’d been able to just coast through from day to day without much thought or acknowledgement of anything. Hell, he couldn’t even tell the days apart inside the bunker if he wanted to avoid it all together, which he had. Sober though. Everything hurt, and there was no avoidance. He spent his days working on Stevie’s car, or Jody’s. Whoever brought their car by saying it was making a weird noise or needed new brake pads. He knew every hunter there could do at least half the shit they were asking him to do, but he never called them out on it. He liked the distraction and getting his hands dirty. 

He’d been living with Stevie and Charlie for about two months when the third advertisement for a local university showed up on the kitchen table with his name on it. Well, with Dean Turner’s name on it. It hadn’t taken Charlie too long to create a fake alias for him, complete with ID, social security card, and a passport he told her he’d never use. 

Dean tossed the college ad in the trash again. “You’re not subtle,” he told her when she came into the kitchen a few minutes later. 

“Never claimed to be,” Charlie said, offering a bright smile. “You could do with something besides cars to take up your time. You’re not hunting anymore—“

“No one will go with me on a hunt, and I might be fucked in the head but I’m not going on a hunt alone,” Dean interrupted her. Everyone had apparently been counting on his letter judgment to not go it alone, and stuck to their guns of not letting him join any of them on a hunt. They overestimated his survival instinct. At the same time though, he hadn’t gone out on any solo hunts, mainly because he would feel guilty for leaving Charlie like that if anything did happen to him. 

“—You’re not going out to bars anymore—“ Charlie continued was if he hadn’t spoken.

“You won’t let me,” Dean interrupted her again. It was half true. She wasn’t keeping him on lockdown, but she’d tried her best to keep him sober, and help him through the steps—the fucking steps—and he wasn’t about to let her down. He couldn’t do that to her. 

“So why not get a business degree and open your own garage?” Charlie suggested. “Or at least like, take a few classes in management or whatever. You probably don’t actually need to finish the degree to open a garage. Just know how the business side of it works.”

“I don’t need a business degree, and I don’t need to open a garage. I’m doing fine. If you want me out, I’ll get a job in town, find a new place—“

“I didn’t say that,” Charlie cut him off. “We love having you here. That’s not it. I’m just worried that you’re,” she paused, as if uncertain how to finish.

“I’m what?” Dean asked, more harshly than he knew he should have. “I’m going crazy? I’m wasting my life? I’m a worthless alcoholic?”

“You’re just treading water,” Charlie finished. “You have a chance at a normal life, Dean. You should take it.”

“I don’t want it,” Dean snapped. “Sam wanted it. Sam should have a normal life. He should be here. I should’ve died in that fucking barn—Not him!”

“Tough shit, Winchester,” Charlie snapped right back at him, making him pause. “It doesn’t matter what you think should’ve happened, or who deserves to live or die. It doesn’t work like that. You don’t get to decide that. All you get to decide is what happens next. If you’re not too chickenshit to decide that much.” 

Dean didn’t say anything. He expected that Charlie thought it was because her words had got to him. They didn’t. He didn’t speak because if he tried, he would scream. At her, at Sam, at Cas. And he couldn’t do that. Screaming was like crying. If he started, he knew he wouldn’t stop. 

He left her in the kitchen, the bread he’d gotten out in a pitiful attempt to make a sandwich forgotten on the counter. He wasn’t hungry. He just needed away. He made it as far as the porch steps before he dropped to the ground, arms resting on his knees, eyes closed as he tried to take a few shaky breaths. He just needed to breathe. Away from Charlie, away from everything. 

“Michael,” a voice said from the other side of the porch. Dean turned a confused look towards Stevie.

“No one’s called me that in a while, and even when they did, didn’t think you knew that story,” he said in a dry tone. 

A small smile curled her lips and she walked towards him, sitting down on the steps beside him. He considered getting up, saying he didn’t want company, and going for a drive, but found that he didn’t mind her company much. Her presence didn’t require as much emotional investment as Charlie’s did. He loved Charlie, no question. But when he didn’t have much energy even for himself, he definitely didn’t have enough for her. Stevie though, he had just enough for her. 

“I think I’d like to hear that story sometime,” she commented. “But no, I meant Michael, my old partner. We met when we were kids. We hunted together after—“ She broke off, shaking her head. He didn’t ask. Every hunter had _that_ story. The one that got them started hunting. Most didn’t want to share, and those that did only shared with family. He wasn’t sure if he and Stevie were there yet. “Anyway, we were on a hunt. Shapeshifter. At least, that’s what I found out that it was, after it killed Michael.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean said. He didn’t have anything else to offer, but he knew from experience there was nothing else to say. No words made it better or easier. 

“Thanks,” she said, offering a small smile. “And the worst thing was that I’d seen it. I didn’t know it was the shifter. It looked like this woman we’d met in town the day before, who had given us some information on the case. She said she was going to fill Michael in on what she’d told me while I speaking to the neighbors. I should’ve realized it wasn’t her, but I didn’t. And a few minutes later, I heard him screaming.”

“Fuck,” Dean breathed. “It wasn’t your fault, you know.”

“I know,” she said. Her voice sounded different, uncertain. Like she was still trying to convince herself. “And what happened to Sam and Cas, that wasn’t your fault either.” 

“Charlie put you up to this?” Dean asked. It wasn’t an accusation, and from her smile, he could tell she didn’t take it as one. 

“No. I overheard.” She nodded back towards the window beside the front door. “Window’s open.” She reached out, squeezing one of his hands in hers. “No hunter alive is a stranger to survivor’s guilt. You’ve got a lot of people to help you through it.”

“How did you?” Dean asked. His eyes were locked onto her hand covering his, and he moved his other hand to cover hers. “Get through the survivor’s guilt?”

“I smoked a cigar,” she answered. His eyes shot up to hers, and he watched an amused smirk curl at her lips.

“You don’t seem the type,” he teased.

“I’m not. I hate the things,” she said with a laugh. 

“Then why did you?”

“Because Michael liked them,” she said, her gaze softening. “I did things that he liked, that he would’ve done, if he was still around. I did things for him for a while, until I remembered how to do things for me.” She shrugged, smile widening a little. “Eventually I realized that he knew I hated cigars, and cheap beer. And he would want me to do things I liked. Now I do things for me, and occasionally I’ll smoke a cigar in his memory. I drink better beer now, though.”

Dean huffed a short laugh, shaking his head as he looked down at the porch, eyes tracing the wood grain in the step under his feet as her words twisted around his mind. He felt her squeeze his hand once more and he loosened his grip so she could pull away. 

“So what’re you going to do now, Dean?” Stevie asked. It didn’t sound like the challenge that her story would imply it should be. He said the first thing that came to his mind.

“I think I’m gonna make a salad.” She laughed, and he couldn’t help but join her as he stood, pulling her into a hug. 

“I think I’ll join you. So, do I get to hear that story about someone calling you Michael over lunch?” Stevie asked. 

Dean laughed, held the door open for her and followed her into the kitchen. When they got there, Charlie was absent. “Sure, though I don’t know if you’ll believe it.”

“I’ve heard some crazy stories. Been a part of a few myself. Hit me,” Stevie said. He helped her get out as many vegetables as they had in the fridge and started chopping while she got bowls and flatware. 

“Alright. Well, I got the honor of being the chosen meat suit for the Archangel Michael, in a fight to the death with his brother, Lucifer.” The bowls clanged together loudly when she half set, half dropped them to the table. 

“ _The_ Archangel Michael? And _the_ fallen angel Lucifer?” Stevie asked. 

“Yeah,” Dean said. 

“Yeah, I’ve—I’ve heard crazier,” she said, though her voice betrayed her words. A smile pulled at Dean’s lips.

“Have you?”

“I’m trying to think of one, but I’m coming up blank,” Stevie admitted, pulling a laugh from Dean. 

That was how Dean got through the next few months. He did what he should. He did what Sam would’ve done, then what Sam would’ve wanted Dean to do. It got easier, after a while. Some days were harder, and he resorted back to eating salads, drinking those weird protein shakes, and even once forcing himself to go on a run with nothing chasing him. 

He didn’t want to think about Cas, what he would’ve done, what he wanted. Sam at least, he knew he would see one day in Heaven. But Cas—he pushed that to the back of his mind. That is, until Charlie left a course catalog on the kitchen table again after he’d been living with them for just over six months. 

Dean had started fixing cars for other people in the area, charging for anyone that wasn’t a hunter. Anyone that wasn’t family. But it wasn’t much of an income. Dean finally flipped through the course catalog with intention this time, not just the way he would humor Charlie int he past, before throwing it away. He couldn’t see himself getting a business degree, not for the garage. A degree wouldn’t help him much with that. He knew Sam would go to law school, but despite Stevie’s story and how he’d been pushing himself lately, he knew he couldn’t get into law school. And he’d hate it anyway. 

He was flipping through the list of certifications and credentials offered, when his eyes drew to one. EMT certification. He’d pushed it to the back of his mind for months, what Cas would do if he was still around, what he would want if he was human, if he wasn’t a hunter. As he read the description of the course though, he knew this was it. If Cas was human, he would want to help people. Heal people. 

Stevie was the first person he told, mostly because he needed a voice of reason. Not Charlie, as much as he loved her. But she’d been so desperate to make sure he wasn’t sinking into himself, further into depression, he knew she would latch onto the first thing he showed interest in no matter what it was. Stevie talked him through it, asked him repeatedly if he was doing it because Cas would, or because he wanted to. 

“A cigar, a salad, or a morning run—those are easy. Those are little things. Don’t make big life decisions based on what Cas or Sam would do. Don’t go into a career that you’ll hate because they would do it.”

He wasn’t. Yes, he was confident that Cas would do this, but he wanted to do it as well. For the other hunters, it would be valuable to have a trained EMT on hand. Field medicine learned on hunts could only go so far. And it would make Dean feel needed. He was wanted, sure. He knew that. Stevie, Charlie, Jody, Garth, even Eileen once she’d started coming around—they all wanted him there. But he wanted to feel needed. He wanted to feel like he made a difference. Like he had something to contribute. 

Dean was admittedly a little nervous just going through the application process. The background check would test Dean Turner’s alias more than anything else he’d done, but Charlie was a rockstar, and he was accepted easily. Bad days came, but they were fewer and further between. 

He found himself hanging out at Garth’s more, where hunters came and went, and beer was always flowing. He’d been avoiding it all for a while, uncertain how strong his sobriety really was, but he found that being around other hunters drinking weirdly made it easier than avoiding them all. Every time a new hunter, someone who didn’t know him, offered him a drink and he declined, he felt a sense of control that he hadn’t realized he’d been lacking. 

“I know what you’re doing,” Dean said one day. He’d been staying with Charlie and Stevie for just under eleven months, and they’d made no plans to push him out. He had enough money now to rent a place of his own, and he intended to soon. Stevie and Julie, another hunter who had been a social worker in a past life, insisted that he stay in one place for a full year. He should go through all of the holidays, all the anniversaries, before he lived on his own. And that was what today was, when Charlie stood at the kitchen counter, shoving a bowl of cookie dough mixture at Dean. It was the anniversary of the day Cas was taken by the Empty. 

“I’m trying to roll balls of cookie dough so we can get these things in the oven. I want homemade chocolate chip cookies yesterday, so help me,” Charlie said forcefully. Dean cracked a smile and copied her movements, dusting his hands in flour, then scooping some dough into his hands and rolling it into a ball before placing it on the baking sheet. 

“We should have PB&Js for lunch,” he commented.

“Cas liked them?” Charlie asked. Dean nodded as they continued going through the bowl of cookie dough. 

“When he was human, yeah. He said he missed them when he got his grace back. Said he could taste every molecule or somethin’ when he was an angel.” Charlie made a disgusted face, and Dean had to laugh. “Yeah, hell if I know what molecules taste like, but they don’t sound appetizing.” 

“We should go to the store and get pork rinds too,” Charlie chimed in. Dean only raised his eyebrows curiously. “Cas told me he was fond of them,” she said proudly, as if accomplished over having some type of food to contribute to the impromptu—whatever. 

“Sure, why not,” Dean conceded immediately. It made Charlie happy, and she was keeping him company on a difficult day. 

She only left him alone sparingly that day. Alone in the bathroom, splashing water on his face and half expecting to see an angel in the mirror when he opened his eyes, was the first time Dean thought about praying to Cas. He wouldn’t hear him, Dean knew that. Cas was in the Empty. No angel radio there. Still, he almost did. What would he even say? I’m sorry? Fuck you for leaving? 

It wouldn’t matter. It had been a year. Cas was gone, Sam was gone. Cas couldn’t hear him, Sam couldn’t hear him. Jack could probably hear him, but he’d said he would be hands off, so either that meant he wasn’t listening or wasn’t answering. It meant about the same to Dean. 

He dried his face with the hand towel and went back out to the kitchen with Charlie and Stevie. He was only a little surprised to find everyone gathered. Garth, Jody, Julie, Eileen, even Claire and Kaia were there. No one asked why the lunch they’d all gathered together for was peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and pork rinds, followed by chocolate chip cookies. Dean suspected Charlie had filled everyone in anyway. 

The next two weeks went by in a similar way. Charlie and Stevie didn’t leave Dean on his own much, which he was grateful for, even if he acted like it annoyed him. The anniversary of Sam’s death a couple weeks after Cas’s, found the same group gathered around the same table, eating grilled chicken salads and telling stories and laughing. It felt good, to tell stories not just in a sad, longing-for-the-past kind of way. They told stories about Sam, Cas, Jack, others they’d lost, and laughed. They laughed like Dean hadn’t in over a year. 

The new year found Dean renting a small studio apartment almost exactly between Charlie and Stevie’s place and Garth’s. It hadn’t been intentional, but it worked out. Maybe it had been a little intentional. Once he finished his certification and got a job as an EMT, he felt like he found his footing. Like the ground wasn’t constantly shifting, always in danger of being pulled out from under him. He had something now. He had some kind of control, enough that when hunters called ahead to Garth that someone had been hurt, Dean could meet them at Garth’s and do something. He could help. 

Not just for hunters, either. He was something in the community. He was a part of a non-hunter community in a way he couldn’t ever remember being. People saw Dean’s uniform when he went to get food off duty and smiled at him. He’d found a purpose that wasn’t hunting. And though he’d only partially done it for Cas, for Sam, some part of him was proud, knowing they would be proud if they knew.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our odd lil Found Family gets a lil bit bigger. Life's a roller coaster and a half.

“You only just got married a year ago. Are you sure about this?” Dean asked. Charlie and Stevie were sitting on his couch, not an uncommon sight over the last two years since he moved out of their guest room. Dean sat in one of the folding dining chairs that he only pulled out when anyone was coming over. 

“Absolutely,” Charlie answered. She squeezed Stevie’s hand in hers, and Dean felt a smile pulling at his lips. 

“Then I’m happy for you,” he said. “Have you decided how? Are you going to foster, or adopt, or go to one of those anonymous sperm donor places?” 

“Well, that’s actually why we wanted to tell you first,” Stevie said slowly. She looked sideways at Charlie, who nodded at her. Dean’s brow furrowed, looking between them and trying to decipher the silent language they’d worked out between them. “We wanted to ask, if you would be our donor.”

The mug in Dean’s hands slipped, hitting the floor with a resounding thud. “Shit, sorry,” he muttered quickly, already reaching for a dish towel. “No, Sachmo, don’t lick that,” he swatted at the six year old rescued lab who had decided that anything on the floor was his for the taking. He dropped the towel onto the puddle of coffee, mopping it up and dropping the towel into the sink to deal with later before he turned back to the two women. “Uh, sorry could you uh—You want me. To be the donor? Be the father of your child?”

“Biological father,” Charlie cut in quickly. “We would be the parents listed on her birth certificate. You’d have no responsibilities or anything. Promise we won’t ask for child support,” she added in a lighter tone. Dean’s mind was spinning. 

“Why on earth would you want me, my DNA, to give you a child? The Winchester DNA is not exactly batting a hundred. We’re all fuck ups with martyr complexes and a penchant for dying too young.”

“You made it past forty,” Stevie offered.

“And pretty sure you were the only one with a martyr complex,” Charlie added. “Sam, not so much. Your father might’ve—I didn’t know him.” 

“No, not really,” Dean muttered. Dean scrubbed a hand over his face, wishing they would be gone when he opened his eyes, and this had been some weirdly vivid dream. They weren’t, and it wasn’t. “Can I uh—Can I have a day or two to think about it?” 

Charlie’s smile brightened, as if he’d already accepted. She was probably glad he hadn’t just outright refused them. He still wasn’t sure if he could tell them no. They looked so hopeful.

He didn’t even register their words as they each hugged him in turn and left his apartment. A father. Well, not really a father. Biological father, as Charlie had put it.

Still, it would mean another human, another Winchester, even if not in name, running around. He dropped onto the couch, face in his hands as he ran over the possibility in his mind. He could see a young Sam, looking up at him with bright eyes. He saw Jack, heard his odd questions, remembered teaching him how to work on cars and load a gun. He remembered Claire, how it hadn’t been that long ago that he’d been ready to murder some creepy biker guy that she’d described as “grabby.” She could take care of herself, he’d known that even then. It still didn’t stop the feeling of protectiveness he’d felt towards her, still did. Could he really handle having a little version of himself running around? 

They had said he wouldn’t have any responsibilities, at least not on paper, but if he did this—hell, he was actually considering it—he didn’t want to be absent form the kid’s life either. 

For the second time since losing the people closest to him, Dean considered praying to Cas. It wouldn’t matter, he still couldn’t hear Dean. He wasn’t getting out of the Empty. He would’ve come back already if he had. Besides, he was pretty sure he’d used up his already exceedingly high number of resurrections that he’d been granted this lifetime. 

“Fuck, Sam. I wish you were here,” Dean muttered to himself. It almost felt like a prayer, but he still didn’t say Cas’s name. Some small part of him worried that Cas could hear him, and he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say if he could. “I don’t know how to do this, man. You’re better at this. The whole apple-pie life thing. I can’t do this. I don’t—I don’t know how. Damnit. I was finally—I was finally okay with this, I think. With you being gone, with Cas—“ he broke off, dropping his head, chin to his chest as he let out a shaky breath. “But this, man. I don’t know.”

Dean had a job that he liked, where he felt like he made a difference. He’d spent years—decades—thinking that if he wasn’t hunting, he couldn’t help anyone. But he’d proven himself wrong. He could help hunters, he could help normal people. He made a difference. He belonged somewhere. He had a life. He had people that missed him when he skipped the weekly poker game at Garth’s, and who showed up at his door unexpected with pie and homemade dinners, not because they were worried, but because they wanted to just spend time with him. He had friends, he had his found family. 

For the first time since Sam and Cas were gone, Dean knew he was living. He wasn’t waiting for something to happen. He wasn’t waiting for his own death, or encouraging it or wishing for it. He wasn’t waiting to see Sam again. He was living, and actually enjoying it. 

That thought more than anything else was what made him pick up his phone and open a message to Charlie. 

Dean: I’m in. How do we do this?

As it turned out, there were a lot more doctors office visits than Dean had expected. For Stevie, sure. But he wasn’t expecting the number of appointments for himself. A physical and bloodwork, a consultation to talk them through how the process would work, and an incredibly awkward appointment involving the doctor, Charlie and Stevie waiting outside of a room where Dean was left with a plastic cup and a stack of magazines. 

Stevie ended up carrying the child. Charlie swore she didn’t want to carry a child every in her life, but Dean didn’t miss the wistful way she would look at Stevie, even when he was complaining of pains and morning sickness. Her smile would soften a little, her fingers drumming against her own stomach for a moment before she caught herself and would go make whatever food Stevie was requesting at the moment. 

Though they agreed that Dean wouldn’t have any legal responsibilities or rights, he wanted to be there as much as they would let him. The three agreed that they would know who their father was, and grow up calling him dad, even if he had no legal rights as their father. It took a village, after all, and hunters knew that more than anyone. 

—————

“You’re going to have your hands full,” Jody said. Ten months after the pair first asked Dean, and there was a crowd waiting at Stevie and Charlie’s when they got home. A banner hung form the ceiling inside the entryway read, “Welcome home Michael and Jacob!!” The twins woke up almost immediately when the women brought them inside, the hushed, excited voices of their family not quite quiet enough to let them sleep. 

“They’re beautiful,” Eileen signed as she spoke. She’d been coming around more often lately. It was still a little awkward between her and Dean. Neither of them wanted to say that it was because seeing each other made them miss Sam, but it was a fact he was pretty sure they both understood. It was odd. He thought a mutual loss would bring them closer, but it seemed that the closer they each had been to Sam, the more it pushed them apart after he was gone. 

“You’re welcome to babysit,” Charlie volunteered. 

“Later. Way later,” Stevie said, bright smile on her lips as she looked down at Michael. Dean could only tell them apart by the green and yellow onesies they were wearing. Charlie had sworn they would never be the kind of parents that put their twins in the exact same outfits. “I don’t know I could bear to be apart from them for a minute right now.”

“You’ll change your mind after the third or fourth night straight of no sleep,” Jody said, earning laughs from the rest of the room. Dean’s eyes were drawn to Jacob, the green onesie he wore was one Dean had picked out, and it reminded him of one Sam had worn when he was a baby. 

“You want to hold him?” Charlie asked. Without waiting for an answer, she knelt down in front fo the stroller and unstrapped the baby, scooping him carefully into her arms. “Make sure you support his head, yeah, like that,” she muttered instructions as she laid him carefully in Dean’s arms. “Hey, lil guy. This is your daddy.”

A lump formed in Dean’s throat at Charlie’s soft words. A smile pulled at his lips, and he started rocking Jacob slightly in his arms. “Hey Jacob. Nice to finally meet you. Been waiting a while.”

It didn’t take long before the boys were getting tired and fussy, and most of the group left while Stevie and Charlie put the boys down in the new cribs that Charlie and Dean had spent the better part of a weekend assembling. It was sad, in a way he hadn’t expected, standing back by the door, watching the new mothers putting their boys down for a nap. His boys, but not really. 

Charlie put a finger to her lips, waving for Dean to move out of the room as she and Stevie left the boys, and joined him in the hallway.

“Do you think they’re okay? I should stay in there with them,” Stevie started, before Dean wrapped his fingers around her wrist. 

“They’re fine,” Dean said, offering a warm smile. 

“There’s a baby monitor in there,” Charlie reminded her, holding up the other half of the set. “Let them sleep. They’ll be awake again soon enough.”

“I give them ten minutes,” Dean said.

“You’re optimistic today, aren’t you?” Stevie teased. 

“What can I say, the miracle of new life makes everything brighter,” Dean replied, easy smile on his lips. He let out a sigh, casting one more glance at the closed door before turning back to the pair. “Anyway, I should take off. Let you two settle in to being new parents.”

“You don’t have to leave,” Charlie insisted. “They should get used to you being around too.”

“I will be,” Dean promised. “Just, not right now. I need to get some sleep anyway. I’m on the early shift tomorrow.”

Some voice in Dean’s head knew what he wanted when he left their house, walking the half mile back to his apartment building. He knew, but he also wasn’t certain if it was just the baby fever talking. Everyone was excited over the twins. Even Jody had made a passing comment about wishing she wasn’t too old to have a little one of her own. 

It took about two months for Dean to wrap his head around the idea. Every time he went over to their house, every time the boys got a little more comfortable with him around, every time Michael fell asleep in his arms, every time Jacob cried until Dean picked him up. Every time his arms felt empty when he handed one of the boys back Charlie or Stevie. 

It took him another month to sort his brain out between what he wanted and what Sam would’ve wanted. Doing things, making little decisions based on what Sam or Cas would’ve done if they’d been alive—it had helped him get through the day-to-day at first. It had helped him quit drinking, and helped him eat actual food, get his life back to some semblance of normal. Now the downside was every time he had to make a major decision, spending longer than usual picking it apart to make sure it was what he wanted, not what one of them would’ve wanted. 

Yes, Sam wanted a family. Sam would absolutely want a family if he was still alive. But did Dean? A few years ago, he would’ve said no. He never thought he did. But the more he thought about it, the more he picked apart his life and the possibilities of it now that he’d given up hunting, the more he thought that maybe it wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted a family, but that he’d never thought he could have one. 

“You want me to what?” Charlie asked. The six month old twins were playing on a mat on the floor, shaking plastic key rings and pushing buttons on toys that made animal sounds. 

Dean sat on the floor on one side of the mat, looking over the boys’ heads at their mother. “I want you to be my surrogate,” he said again. “Obviously, only if you’re comfortable with it. I just—I want a family too.”

“Of course I will, if that’s what you want,” Charlie said, offering a warm smile. “But if it’s just because you think you don’t have a family, then you’re wrong. You do have a family.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I just. I want more, I think. And you—I know you’d wanted to carry a child too. They wouldn’t—I mean you’d be their mother as much as I’m the twins’ father, but…” He trailed off, shrugging helplessly. They had talked about it after the twins were born. She and Stevie had wanted two kids. Stevie would carry the first, and Charlie would carry the second. They hadn’t counted on twins, and didn’t think they were equipped to care for three kids. 

Stevie joined in the conversation when she got home from helping Garth run point from his house on a few simultaneous hunts, and ran through the same questions she’d had when Dean told her he wanted to be an EMT. When she was satisfied that he was doing it for himself, not for Sam, they called the same doctor that had handled Stevie’s pregnancy. 

Dean spent the next nine months accompanying Charlie to medical appointments, staring in awe and disbelief at ultrasounds, and waking up at three in the morning to go to the 24/7 drugstore to pick up whatever odd snack foods Charlie was craving. It was usually a weirdly specific flavor of ice cream, or caramel filled chocolates. 

Claire had volunteered to help him move into a new place, a townhouse he’d found a little further from the rest of the hunters in town, but still an easy enough drive. He knew he would need more space, and the townhouse offered what he needed. Claire had helped him paint and set up the nursery. Stevie had helped him baby proof everything in the place. He was more anxious than he thought he would be, but every time he went over the Charlie and Stevie’s house and spent more time with the twins, the more certain he was. 

If he hadn’t been accustomed to blood, either from his previous life as a hunter or as an EMT, he would’ve been more freaked out being in the delivery room. As it was, he still nearly passed out just from the nerves and sheer panic alone. It was all more than worth it when the nurse gingerly placed the newborn baby girl in his arms for the first time. 

The welcome home party for Samantha Mary Winchester was everything Dean had come to expect from his family. Every hunter he knew in the area was there, and a few that had gone out of their way on drives to or from a hunt to make it there for a few hours. He was most grateful to see Eileen there, if he was being honest. 

“I wish Sam was here to meet her,” Eileen said when Dean set the newborn carefully in her arms. 

He waited a moment until she looked up at him before he spoke, making sure she could read his lips, “Me too. He would love her,” he said, signing the little that he knew, which was only ‘me too’ and ‘love.’ His eyes dropped back down to the girl. “Sammy, meet your Aunt Eileen. She’s gonna be coming around to see us more often, I hope,” he added, eyes flicking back up to the woman. Her smile softened and she nodded. It was still hard, seeing her and feeling the ache in his chest, the void his brother had left behind. But he still loved Eileen like a sister, and he did want her in Samantha’s life. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much after a while. Like everything else, the ache would eventually dull to background noise.

It was an odd, functional little family. Charlie was Mom, Stevie was Mama, Dean was Dad. The babies were half siblings, and raised almost as if they all had two homes, spending days in one home or the other, or sometimes with Eileen or Garth. Even Claire had volunteered for a babysitting day on occasion. There was rarely a day during those first several years that the kids spent apart. 

Sammy had Charlie’s red hair, Dean’s green eyes, and by the time she was a toddler, both their stubborn attitudes and habits for getting into trouble. She was going to be a handful, and Dean found himself glad that twins didn’t run in Charlie’s family as they apparently did in Stevie’s. 

Photos of Samantha’s family, all of her family, made a collage on one wall of her room. Eileen and Sam smiled at her from one frame. Dean, Sam, Cas and Jack from another. John, Mary, Dean and Sam in another. A tired Stevie and Charlie held Michael and Jacob in another frame. Jody, Claire, Kaia and Patience were in another. A photo Sam had taken of Dean and Cas was near the bottom corner of the collage, far enough from the main eye line of the photos that the candid smiles could easily be missed. 

When she and the twins got older, Dean would tell them stories of Sam, and of Cas. He would listen to Stevie tell stories of her old hunting partner, Michael, and Charlie would tell them stories of her late father, Jacob. It was odd family from the outside looking in, Dean knew that. But it was theirs, and it was nearly perfect. His eyes drifted back to the frames, lingering on Sam and Eileen for a moment, then a few moments longer on himself and Cas. Nearly perfect. 

It was perfect for now, though. 

When the twins were ten and Samantha was nine, was when things got harder. Within the span of the next five years, it was like losing everything, everyone, all over again.

Jody was the first. It wasn’t even on a hunt. Pneumonia put her in the hospital, and she never pulled back out. “I didn’t want to go out on a hunt,” she’d said as Dean sat by her bedside. Everyone knew, but no one was saying it. The doctors had said they would make her comfortable. 

Comfortable was a death sentence. 

Dean squeezed her hand, eyes set on the scar down her forearm where he’d stitched a deep gash after a hunt. It had been nearly a year before, Dean had rushed to Garth’s house after Jody got off a hunt, bleeding and nearly passed out from the blood loss. Days like that, he felt like he had a purpose. Days like this, he wished he did. 

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Dean said weakly.

“It’s not supposed to be like anything,” Jody said, offering him a weak smile. 

“You’re a hunter. You shouldn’t—fucking pneumonia shouldn’t be what takes you out,” he choked out.

“I’m a human,” she corrected him. She squeezed his hand, tugging at it a little until he looked up and met her eyes. “We’re all human. Besides, I don’t want to go out with some monster thinking it’s better than me anyway,” she added, her lips quirking up a little. He found himself smiling sadly back at her. “I’m a hunter that no monster could kill. Not many hunters get to go out saying that.” Dean huffed out a short laugh. “Look after my girls for me,” she added.

“You know I will.”

A year later, Garth was next. He didn’t go out on hunts much anymore, usually looking up lore and fielding phone calls, running point from a command center style office in his basement. But one demon had found him, one he’d been working with a couple hunters to track down for months. She found him first. It was a few hours of unanswered calls from half a dozen hunters before Kaia went to check on him and found him dead in the basement. 

No last words, no mystery. No redemption or attempts to save him or get him back. It was just over. He was gone, and Dean felt numb all over again. He wondered if he could’ve saved Garth if he’d been there, if he’d known, if he could’ve gotten there in time. Samantha kept him from spiraling. Some days, she was the only thing that kept him holding on. 

Claire was the hardest. She was young, full of fire and a drive to make the world a better place. She was the next generation, the next Winchester, for all intents and purposes. 

Dean was on the tail end of a late night shift, riding shotgun in the ambulance while his partner, a younger guy with about a decade more experience named Jonathan, drove them back towards the hospital. Dean’s phone pinged with a new text and he pulled it out of his pocket.

Eileen: Bad hunt. Come now

“One more job before we pack it in,” Dean told Jonathan, already tracking the GPS location on Eileen’s phone. “Left up here.”

“Family emergency?” Jonathan asked, shifting into the turn lane. Dean appreciated this about his partner. He never complained if they had to stay out later, or when Dean took them off course. Of course, he’d been uncertain the first time it happened. Until they ended up in the middle of a field of decapitated vamps, checking on a few hunters that had taken more than their fair share of injuries from the fight. After getting the full rundown on all things going bump in the night, Jonathan was all in to help out any injured hunters. “I’m not a fighter, but I’ll be there in the aftermath,” he had told Dean. Since then, they always referred to these calls as family emergencies. Something like black boxes in the ambulances kept track of everything that was said for liability reasons. 

“Yeah,” Dean answered. He turned on the lights, only flipping the sirens on when they went through an intersection or needed to get the attention of nearby cars. Late night emergencies were tricky that way. They needed to get where they needed to, but they didn’t want to piss off everyone along the way by waking them with blaring sirens at three in the morning. 

“Shit,” Dean breathed as they drew closer. Jonathan had barely pulled to a stop before Dean was out of the ambulance, running towards the splay of familiar blonde hair on the concrete. “No, no, no. Claire? Claire! Can you hear?” She was still warm, but her pulse was weak and she wasn’t breathing. A gash in her leg was spilling blood over the sidewalk. Eileen pulled Kaia back, and Dean could distantly hear her telling the younger woman to give them room to work. 

“She’s losing a lot of blood,” Jonathan’s voice joined him. “Vitals?”

“Pulse is weak, and she’s not breathing. Starting compressions,” Dean recited to him. He pressed one palm over the over on her chest, and started compressions.

Thirty compressions.

He tilted her head back and checked for breaths that weren’t coming. Jonathan put the cpr bag over her nose and mouth, squeezing it for two breaths before he pulled it away.

Thirty compressions.

Two breaths.

Thirty compressions.

Jonathan leaned over Claire’s face with a penlight.

“Pupils unresponsive.” 

Two breaths.

Thirty compressions.

Two breaths.

Thirty compressions.

“Dean, I think—“

“No.”

Two breaths.

Thirty compressions.

Jonathan didn’t move to replace the cpr bag. Dean snatched it away and did it himself.

Two breaths.

“Dean—“

“Shut up.”

Thirty compressions.

“I don’t feel a pul—“

“She’s going to be fine. She has to be fine.”

Two breaths.

Thirty compressions.

“Come on, Claire. Come on, stay with me.”

Two breaths.  
Thirty compressions.

A rib cracked.

Two breaths.

“Dean, we have to call it—“

“No.”

Thirty compressions.

Two breaths.

Wet drops fell, staining the shoulder of Claire’s shirt.

Thirty compressions. 

Hands grabbed at his arms from behind.

“Dean, stop. I’m sorry, but—“

“No, no, no,” Dean muttered over and over again. He let Jonathan pulled him back onto the sidewalk, his entire body shaking and tears blurring his vision. “Not Claire. Fuck, not Claire.” 

“I’m sorry.” Jonathan let go of his arms slowly, as if ready to grab Dean if he lunged forward to try again. He didn’t. He stayed frozen on the sidewalk, staring at the woman, the hunter that the little girl he’d known had grown into. The girl he hadn’t been able to save. 

He distantly heard voices, and knew Jonathan was asking Eileen if he could call it in. He knew to always check now, as many hunters went under different aliases, or weren’t alive, legally speaking. Dean’s eyes remained trained on Claire. 

Dean knew he shouldn’t stay home alone with Samantha that night. He knew he should take his daughter and spend the night with Charlie and Stevie. Logically, he knew that. 

He didn’t. 

Dean hugged Samantha tight when he got home. She was nearly a teenager now, and stood almost to his shoulder. When she went to bed, he went to the corner store. He got a bottle of whiskey and went back home.

He prayed to Cas for the first time that night, if curses and apologies could be called prayer. He broke nearly fifteen years of sobriety. If anyone could blame him for that, they could go straight to hell for all he cared. 

“I’m sorry. I tried. Fuck. Cas, I tried. I tried. I’m sorry,” he muttered, barely intelligible through tears and drunken slurred words. 

It could’ve been worse. Dean made sure it wasn’t. He put his keys on top of the upper cabinets in the kitchen because he knew when he was drunk, he wouldn’t be coordinated enough to reach them. He texted Stevie to come by in the morning. He didn’t open the bottle until Samantha was safely asleep in bed, and then stayed in his room. It could’ve been worse. 

He understood why Stevie was pissed at him anyway. He was a little pissed at her for not recognizing how carefully he’d planned to get blackout drunk. 

She was pissed that he’d planned without calling her. 

He was nothing if not careful. Nowadays, anyway. Since he had Samantha. He wouldn’t do anything that would hurt her, even if he knew he would end up hurting himself. 

Losing Claire had been the last straw. Jody had been hard, Garth had been hard. But Claire—she was so young. She wasn’t supposed to die. She was supposed to live a long life with Kaia, but happy and maybe have kids of her own one day. He’d seen how much she’d loved babysitting Samantha and the boys when they had been younger. She should’ve had a life. She should’ve had kids of her own. She shouldn’t have died like that.

Dean should’ve saved her. He should’ve protect her. He hadn’t. 

Jonathan attended his first hunter’s funeral. Dean lit the pyre. Kaia spoke about the kind of person Claire had been. She broke down before she finished. 

Charlie insisted Samantha and Dean stay at their house for a few days. Dean let Samantha stay with them. He stayed home, locked the doors, turned off his phone, and spent a few days of pto alternating between drunk and hungover until Jonathan threatened to break through a window. 

Dean hadn’t believed he would do it until he saw the man outside, walking cane from the back of the ambulance in hand and expression livid. 

Jonathan managed to drag him to a meeting. An honest-to-Jack AA meeting. Dean had no idea how his life had ended up there, but somehow it had. It was more than a little weird hearing people talk about God, praying to a God that Dean had met. The weird thing was that the God they thought they were praying to, for all intents and purposes, was probably Chuck. But he was a shit God. There was some comfort in the knowledge that Jack would be better. There was less comfort in the knowledge that he was staying hands off when people asked for his help. But they seemed to get help from somewhere, so Dean chalked it up to a holy placebo. 

With help from Stevie and Jonathan, Dean’s sobriety found itself on something of a steady track again. And Claire’s name found itself on the growing list of people Dean had failed. He tried not to focus on the list too much. Sammy needed him, and he refused to let her name join theirs. That, more than anything, was what helped set him straight. 

Besides that, Dean found that he didn’t have time for much outside of work and Samantha’s ever growing schedule. Middle and high school became a blur of juggled schedules that even three parents had trouble managing, but they did. Between Michael’s football and Sammy’s basketball practice, Jacob’s piano lessons and karate classes, they managed to work out a pickup and drop off schedule. Only to flip it on its head when the season changed, but at least Sammy and Jacob both got into the spring musical, so that made scheduling a little easier, just working in the addition of Michael’s baseball practice. 

So many days, it was too much, Dean hadn’t slept, couldn’t sleep, felt like he was losing it. But by the time he watched Samantha walk across the stage at her high school graduation, he wished he could go back and do it all again. 

He retired not long after Sammy finished high school and left for college in New York. He tried to help a couple of the newer hunters—hell, even the hunters he considered young and been hunting for a couple decades—run point on lore and information, fielding phone calls. But it had been so long since he’d been in the game that most of the new tech and security protocols needed to fake an FBI badge or phone call were outside of his expertise. 

It was a stroke of all things. As he heard the doctors and nurses in the ER speaking over him, unable to move the right side of his body or make his voice work, he heard his brother’s voice in his head, chiding him for all the greasy burgers he ate. Jody’s words overlapped Sam’s. A hunter no monster could kill. He’d have to ask her if she thought he qualified. He’d been killed by monsters before. It just hadn’t stuck. No, it would be a stroke that did it. How stupid was that?

Stevie’s voice broke through. Sammy was on her way. Hold on, she told him. He held on as long as he could. He held on until he saw his daughter’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter was kinda rough, I know. Ugh, I love Claire. That physically hurt me to write. But y'all can guess what's coming in the next chapter!!! ;) 
> 
> Comments and kudos give me life <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, this chapter is predictable enough. Dean lived his life, now he gets to see his brother again. And maybe someone else?

The first thing Dean noticed when he faded back to consciousness, was that nothing hurt. His neck, which hadn’t been fully without aches and pains for several years, felt fine. The air smelled clean, it smelled like that time he and Sam had driven through the Blue Ridge Parkway, stopped and just sat and looked at the views from the mountains whenever they felt like it. 

When he pried his eyes open, it was bright. Middle of the day, California sun kind of bright. It took him a moment to focus, so see what was around him. Trees, mostly. Mountains in the distance, and a figure running towards him. 

His throat closed up, and he couldn’t even form his brother’s name before their arms were wrapped tight around each other.

“It’s ben a while,” Dean finally choked out, laughing against Sam’s shoulder. 

Sam pulled back, smile wide and eyes as bright as young as the days before—before everything in their lives had gone to shit. “Has it? Feels like I just got here.”

Dean laughed, squeezing his brother’s shoulder, reminding himself that he was really there. He was in Heaven, and Sam was there with him. “I have a lot to catch you up on,” he said, mind casting back to earth. To Samatha, to Michael and Jacob. 

“We have time,” Sam said. His lips quirked up in a way that even after decades apart, Dean knew meant that there was something Sam wasn’t telling him. “Someone’s been waiting for you, though,” he said. His eyes were set on something, or someone probably, over Dean’s shoulder

Dean expected it must be Jody or Garth, maybe Claire. The last thing he expected to see when he turned around was a familiar trenchcoat and messy black hair set above bright blue eyes, watching him with all of the same adoration—love—that Dean had been too blind, too unwilling to see in them decades ago. 

Sam’s hands fell away from Dean’s arms, and he felt himself stumble a little as he tried to catch his balance. To catch his breath. 

He opened his mouth, but closed it again a moment later. Fear—a fear that this wasn’t all real, that Cas would disappear if he spoke, if he breathed too loud—gripped him, despite Sam’s words, despite his smile, despite seeing Cas directly in front of him, standing on the porch of a home Dean couldn’t even take in the details of. It was all blurred, everything except Cas. He was the only thing in focus as Dean moved slowly at first, then more quickly until he was nearly running, stopping right in front of Cas. 

Cas’s smile widened a little as Dean approached, and Dean found his lips pulling up to match it. 

“Hello Dean.”

The familiar voice, the familiar greeting, the way Cas’s lips formed the words, it broke something, and Dean lunged forward, throwing his arms around Cas and pulling him tight against him. He knew he was shaking, knew he was holding on too tight, knew tears were starting to form in his eyes, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. Not when he felt Cas’s arms wrap around him, hold him tight and warm and _safe_.

“Cas, how—I thought, you were in the Empty,” Dean choked out. “I thought you were—you were gone.”

“I was,” Cas answered. His grip loosened a little, and Dean knew that was the silent signal that he should let go, but he didn’t want to yet. He couldn’t. He just tightened his grip, eyes shut tight as he held on a little bit longer, and felt Cas’s arms tighten around him again. “Jack pulled me out of the Empty. He needed help rebuilding Heaven.”

At the mention of Jack, Dean finally loosened his grip a little and pulled away, though not far. He kept one hand on Cas’s shoulder, the there on his arm. The fear wasn’t entirely gone, and he didn’t want to risk letting go, in case the Empty would come back, in case he would disappear again. He couldn’t let that happen. Not again. 

“Why didn’t you come back?” Dean asked quietly. “I thought you were dead. For decades, Cas—Its been fucking _decades_.”

Cas’s smile slipped and his eyes dropped to the ground. Dean almost apologized, almost took back the words, if it would replace Cas’s smile. But he needed an answer. He had been miserable, he’d been—There were days he hadn’t thought he’d make it through. Days he hadn’t wanted to. And if Cas had been there? Those days would’ve been a hell of a lot easier.

“I know,” Cas answered. “I’m sorry. Jack’s not allowing angels on earth anymore. No exceptions.”

“Not even for you?” Dean asked. It seemed hard to believe. Cas was as good was Jack’s father, if anyone deserved to be exception to the rule, it was him.

“Especially not for me,” Cas said. A sad kind of smile tugged at his lips, and a moment later large, bright, iridescent rainbow wings unfurled from his back. Dean fell back a step, though the hand on his arm still clutched at his jacket sleeve, still unwilling to let go entirely.

“Your wings, they’re—“ _beautiful_. “Not the wings you had in the barn,” Dean said. They were incredible. The inky black wings Dean had seen only a flash of in the barn, they had been powerful, terrifying, the wings of a soldier. These were—

“No, they’re not,” Cas answered. “They’re the wings of an Archangel.”

“A what?” Dean asked weakly. His fingers slipped from Cas’s jacket sleeve. He didn’t mean to fall back another step when Cas took a step towards him. He really didn’t. The way Cas’s smile slipped, and he retreated a few steps felt like it shattered something in Dean. He opened his mouth, but closed it again. What was he supposed to say? Cas was an Archangel. Dean was a corrupt and scarred human. Who was he—who _could_ he be to Cas now? 

“Jack made me an Archangel when he pulled me out of the Empty,” Cas said. Where there had been pride in his expression when he showed Dean his wings, now there was only shame and remorse in his voice.

“That’s incredible,” Dean said. He forced a smile, and tried to put as much pride and happiness into his tone as he could. Judging by Cas’s face, he didn’t accomplish it. He should be happy for Cas, he knew that. But all he could feel was loss. He hadn’t ever let himself even consider what he would say to Cas if he saw him again, if he ever had a chance to respond to the words the angel had said to him before the Empty took him. He’d been afraid to, and convinced himself it didn’t matter because he’d never get the chance to anyway. 

Now though, with Cas in front of him, an Archangel within arm’s reach, he felt further away than ever. 

Cas’s wings folded in on themselves until they disappeared from Dean’s view again, and Dean mourned their loss, even if the slight of them made him feel so far from Cas. 

“I’m sorry, for coming so soon when you arrived. I should’ve allowed you your distance,” Cas said. He took a few steps closer, as if to walk past Dean, but a hand shot out to grab at his trench coat again. Cas met his eyes, weary and sad, but somehow no less warm and caring. 

“Don’t go, please,” Dean whispered. He cleared his throat, shaking his head a little as he looked up to meet Cas’s eyes. “I mean, you can. I know you—you’re an Archangel,” his voice broke over the word that felt like it created a canyon between them. “You’re busy, you have, Heavenly work to do, or whatever. But. Uh, Cas.” He trailed off for a moment. Even with this news creating such distance between them, he knew if he didn’t say it now, he wouldn’t ever. “What you said, before the Empty took you—“

“I didn’t say it to make you uncomfortable,” Cas cut him off. “I didn’t say it with any expectation of reciprocity, or a response at all. You don’t need to say anything.”

“I do, though,” Dean said. “Cas, I didn’t—You’re a frickin’ angel. Or you were, now you’re an Archangel. I didn’t think you could feel love, not the way that humans do. I never thought that you might—“ He broke off, closing his eyes. His hand dropped from Cas’s sleeve. “Things are different now, I get that. You’re an Archangel, and I’m just a fucked up human that only made it into Heaven cause I’m on a first name basis with the new God. If you don’t still feel the same way, if you _can’t_ feel that way about me anymore, I get it. But, for whatever it’s worth, I love you too.”

“Dean, look at me,” Cas’s voice was softer and closer than before. When Dean opened his eyes, his breath caught in his throat. Cas was less than a foot in front of him, his eyes glistening, his smile warm and gentle. It was the same look on his face just before the Empty came and took him. The same look that had haunted Dean’s dreams and nightmares for years. Dean reflexively reached out to grab onto the front of his coat, as if that could stop him from disappearing again. “I meant every word that I said. You are incredible, the most amazing human I’ve ever known. You changed me. You made me a better person. I learned to love, from you. And I love you, for that and so many other reasons. And nothing, not Heaven, or Jack, or the Empty, or becoming an Archangel, can change that.”

“Cas,” Dean whispered past the lump in his throat. He couldn’t make his voice work past that, couldn’t force any other words past his lips. So he spoke through action instead. The hand clutching Cas’s coat slipped across Cas’s ribs, around his back. His other hand found the side of Cas’s face, pulling, guiding him closer as Dean’s head dipped just enough to press their lips together. 

He felt a hand on the back of his neck, another gripping his arm, tugging, holding him closer as Cas’s lips moved against his. 

When they broke apart, Dean didn’t pull far away, just far enough that he could look into the bright blue eyes staring back at him. 

“Stay, please,” he said quietly. His thumb traced a line along Cas’s cheekbone, feeling the way the muscles moved under his skin when Cas smiled up at him. 

“As long as you want me around,” Cas answered. He leaned up to press another chaste kiss against Dean’s lips, pulling a smile from the ex-hunter. Dean kissed him again, longer and deeper this time, savoring the freedom that he had to kiss the angel—Archangel—that stood in front of him. 

“So what now?” Dean asked when he broke the kiss again. His lips curled up into a teasing smile. “Not that I don’t like this part of Heaven. I can definitely get used to this.”

Cas smiled back at him, taking Dean’s hand still against his cheek in his and turning to press a kiss against Dean’s palm, before lacing their fingers together and taking a small step back. He turned to look towards the house he’d been standing in front of, and Dean looked up to actually take in the building. It was a single story, pale green house, with a dark wooden porch, a swing hanging on one side o it, a table and a couple chairs on the other side. 

“Now, this is your house,” Cas said.

“Ours,” Dean corrected him without thinking. He felt his cheeks flush, and determinedly did not look at Cas to see him reaction, though he felt the Archangel squeeze his hand gently in response. 

“Sam and Eileen are next door,” Cas added, gesturing to an almost identical, though grayish blue house next door. “Your parents are down the road that way, Bobby is further up the road. Garth is near there as well. Jody and Claire have houses next door to each other just a couple miles down the other direction.” 

Dean didn’t realize he was staring towards where Cas had indicated Claire’s house was until he felt Cas tugging on his hand. “There’s time to see everyone soon,” Cas said. “Don’t you want to see,” he paused a moment before continuing, “Our house first?” A warmth filled Dean’s chest at the words, and he nodded, bright smile on his lips as he walked towards the house. Their house. 

“This is incredible,” Dean breathed, looking around as they climbed the steps to the porch. He turned to look out at the view, at the mountains and forest that looked like it was out of a painting. Like something ethereal. He was starkly reminded, with an Archangel beside him, that that’s exactly what it was. “Sammy would love this,” he said. He knew that Cas understood he wasn’t talking about his brother next door. 

“She’ll find her way here eventually,” Cas assured him. 

“I told her about you,” Dean said. “How we met, how many times you saved me. About her uncle Sam, about—hell, everyone.”

“She’s brilliant, and a pure, beautiful soul,” Cas said. Dean didn’t ask how he knew that, but he knew it was true. “I look forward to meeting her.”

“Not anytime soon, I hope,” Dean said. “It will be amazing when she gets here. When you get to meet her, when Sam gets to. But not anytime soon.”

“No, it won’t be soon,” Cas answered. “Not by earth’s standards. Time moves differently up here. Eternity is…. A strange thing. Come inside, see our new heavenly home.”

Dean turned and followed him, unable and unwilling to wipe the smile from his lips as they walked inside. As soon as the door opened, a familiar song started to play, and Dean couldn’t help but laugh. 

“I’m not sure why, but this song always plays when the door is opened,” Cas commented, sounding more than a little confused. 

“Did Jack pull Gabriel out of the Empty, by any chance?” Dean asked.

“Yes, how did you know?”

“Lucky guess.” He turned and pulled Cas closer, kissing his Archangel to the sound of Heat of the Moment. 

Heaven was close enough to perfect, but he wasn’t about to rush anyone. They would find their way there eventually. And this—This was perfect for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I have no self control, so these chapters all got posted pretty quickly. I want to do more in this series. Let me know which character's pov you'd like to see in the next story. I'm leaning towards Gabriel, for a lighter story after this one.
> 
> Leave me comments and kudos!! They inspire me to write more <3

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know in the comments which character's story in this universe you'd like to see next!


End file.
